I’ve been writing since I was eight, despite being told that I shouldn’t. Writing revealed too much. This is why I tell my students they should never be afraid to put the truth on the page. I’m a community college English professor, who alternately loves and despairs of her students. I’ve written lots of different things—newspaper columns, academic stuff, poems (including two chapbooks and a forthcoming full-length collection) and a couple of mystery novels, one of which will be published this spring by Barking Rain Press. I have the very great pleasure of serving the town of Norwalk, Connecticut, as its poet laureate. At this very moment, my dog is sniffing through my trash for a draft of something to chew on. ​ My website: www.laurelpeterson.com​

Divorcing Mr. Sleeping Beauty

I should probably discount the fairything at my husband's birth; you know,twelve invited, the thirteenth slighted,so she curses him from here toeternity with a spastic spindle.

The day my husband graduated high school,his father's death made himthe man of the house:tassles and beer basheschased with sirensand antiseptic-smelling terror.Sleep after that spindle prick came easy.

In the story, everyone sleeps:the lobster poised over the cooking pot,the mouse in the cat's mouth,the thief with the noose on his neck.No one ages.No one even growsone beard hair orlong fingernail.

In the story, the princedoesn't try to hack through the briarsuntil the hundred years are up.In the story, the prince bleeds fromthe slashing thorns for only one day.In the story, fire worksagainst the hedge's defense, and the prince knows he canwaken Sleeping Beauty; she wantsto waken.

I drove past the castle last week.Weeds consume the rose garden. A mound of wood chipsdecomposes in the driveway.Wisteria trailers wind aroundthe arms and legs of deck furniture,encasing space in foliage.

Somewhere inside,he's waiting for Princess Charmingbut watch out, sister.Briars will pin your dress to the dirt; vines will cuff your ankles and wrists. You will wait with himfor the hundred years to end—unlessthe clock, too, sleeps.